


Mirrors Seen Through Smoke

by PanBoleyn



Series: Flicker Into Light [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: (not exactly werewolf but that's the nearest tag), Actually first meetings in triplicate, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Faerie in Middle-Earth, First Meetings, Gen, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Shifter!Bard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 10:52:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4432757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PanBoleyn/pseuds/PanBoleyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the death of his wife, Bard turns to the hunt, to a part of himself he's all but pushed aside, as the only way to get through his grief. The consequences of this choice are far more than he ever might have guessed, although he always knew hunting in an elven forest was chancy at best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirrors Seen Through Smoke

**Author's Note:**

> So this is basically my response to the pain of mortal/immortal shipping - play with canon so things are much better. Also, the result of wishing there was more fae in Middle-Earth. 
> 
> Aiwendil is another name for Radagast, as Mithrandir is for Gandalf. (I'm sure most of you know that, but just in case I figured I'd note it.)

The first rule is not to be noticed.

  
  


Humans aren't that much of a worry, truth be told. Of course, changelings spend most of their time among humans, being part human themselves, so it's important to hide from them. It's also  _easy_ , most of the time. As a rule, humans tend to see what they expect to see, so a neighbor with just a little extra skill with animals, with a little better hearing or a sensitive nose, it's a quirk but nothing serious.

  
  


Bard knows this, he's grown up in a fishing village and moreover, thanks to his father's bloodline, he's grown up  _watched_ . And yet, for all their watching, the Master's spies know only that he's a bit of a troublemaker. They know he makes extra money training the few working animals of Laketown, because "they just come back smarter when you do it, Bard." But they think nothing of it, or the glint of amber in his eyes. 

  
  


He's glad they don't. He will have to leave one day, unless he gives up his wolf and becomes truly human, truly mortal, but for his children's sake he does not want that to be soon.

  
  


Which makes what he's up to these days an even greater folly. Because it isn't the humans that changelings worry about. Their pureborn ancestors, the skinchangers, were mostly left alone by the better known races, but they are among the Hidden People, the beings that are of the Wild in ways the elves will never be for all most humans think they are. Elves, after all, are not entirely of this world, and the Hidden People are.

  
  


And so it is the elves, and the wizards, that changelings are wary of. Dwarves don't care, they keep to themselves, there's little to fear from them. But what would elves and wizards, those closest to the Valar, say of a race of mongrels who perhaps were never meant to be, who only came to be in a time of desperation?

  
  


But there are monsters in Mirkwood. And Bard, Bard who has been swallowing back his rage along with his wolf in the months since his wife's death, Bard who wants someone or something to blame but knows there is nothing but ill luck to hate... He needs a way to use his anger before it destroys him. He needs some kind of release.

  
  


And the wolf needs to hunt.

  
  


It's actually a surprise when the monsters turn out to be giant spiders. Bard isn't sure why, but he hadn't pictured that. Perhaps because to him spiders are at worst only pests, while monster puts him in mind of the wargs that, like his kind, have their roots in the original skinchangers. Twisted and held in animal form by dark magic, forced to mate with true animals, and from that torture wargs came to be. But the spiders are dangerous, their webs deadly. Claws are enough to get him out on two occasions before he can be truly wrapped up, but it is a near thing.

  
  


Logic would dictate that he stop now, before he finds himself unable to escape, but the truth is that he still needs this. He needs this so that he won't beat Alfrid to a pulp despite all provocation, so that he won't follow in his father's footsteps and attempt a plot for a full-scale coup. (That ended with his father dead in a so-called 'boating accident', after all.)

  
  


And more than that... He enjoys it. He enjoys the pure physical rush of taking one of them down, the whirl of claws and teeth, legs and pincers. He learns to catch single spiders alone, to tear them to pieces and spook the others, and even the burn of their blood in his mouth is more a thrill than a pain. Bard had all but given up this side of himself – not truly, not enough to lose his wolf, but mostly – after his marriage, because Astrid and the children as they came were more important. He had let his wolf go and forgotten how much he loves his strength in this form, his freedom.

  
  


As the weeks pass, sometimes he does not even bother to seek out spiders, but instead just runs through the woods, letting his human self with all his worries and anger and sorrows be drowned out by his wolf for a few precious hours.

  
  


It is during one of these calmer days when he sees it. The white elk stands before three trees so intertwined they seem to be one tree with three trunks, its leaves red with the growing autumn and silvery-grey bark looking near white in the glow the elk gives off. Bard is immediately confused - to his wolf self the elk is not real, does not even exist, because it has no scent. Everything has a scent; the trees, the earth, even the air carries scents. And it makes no sound either, so strange when in this form he can hear falling leaves hit the ground. So the wolf wants to ignore this thing that is unreal, some trick to the sight that is only his third-strongest sense.

  
  


But behind the instincts of the wolf, Bard the man knows danger when he sees it. This is real, if fantastical, and it can only mean magic. Which in turn can only mean two things. There are rumors of a wizard somewhere in Mirkwood, and perhaps this is some spell of his, a watching spirit or some such. Worse, far worse – because the wizard might not even exist – is that this is some elvish enchantment. Bard knows his wolfish shape is far too large to be mistaken for a true wolf. Which is why he tries to back up, to hide amongst the shadows before catching the elk's attention.

  
  


The elk slowly turns its great horned head his way and Bard does his best to remain still, the wolf unsure why there's any threat and the man on the verge of panic. He can't tell if he's been spotted – the glow of the elk makes its eyes hard to see – but eventually the elk canters away. It seems he's managed to avoid notice.

  
  


This time.

  
  


  
  


“Tauriel and Caladon have returned from the wizard, my lord,” Feren tells him, and Thranduil nods, waiting for the two of them to be sent in. For nigh on a year something has been killing the spiders in his forest, and the patrols can say almost nothing about this new creature. The marks it leaves are wolfish, but too large to be a proper wolf. Thranduil has other reasons to suspect something like a wolf; he saw it himself, in his pure _fea_ form, though not clearly. It hid in the shadows so he only saw a pale-furred muzzle, and the dark shape of its form.

  
  


It turned and ran from him, a strange reaction for a wolf seeing an elk, stranger for a creature that hunts something as dark as the spiders.

  
  


So Tauriel as captain of the guard and Caladon as, well, a guard who actually enjoys Aiwendil's company, had gone to speak with the wizard of the forest to see if he knew anything.

  
  


Thranduil doubts that they learned anything useful, in truth; Aiwendil is intelligent if erratic, and far less irritating than his fellow wizards, but he's not precisely a reliable source of information. Still, his connection with the wild means there is a chance, however slim.

  
  


So far, the beast doesn't appear to be a threat to anything but the spiders, but Thranduil is not exactly certain what's happening to his forest. A darkness, yes, and there is an obvious and likely source, but... He's never heard of anything quite like this, not something that can invade an elven realm from a long-dead place of evil. Even if Dol Guldur is less dormant than they believe, it should not be affecting his lands this much. Spawning evil creatures, yes, but actually changing the nature of it...

  
  


Thranduil would like to blame it on the loss of the gems, all those years ago. But he knows there's more to it than that. What he does not know is if the creature killing spiders, though apparently benign so far, could become changed as well. Knowing what it is might help answer that question.

  
  


“The wizard could tell us little,” Tauriel says, and expecting that doesn't make it any less frustrating for Thranduil to hear. “He says that the great wolves do not venture so far south, as we knew, and that there are no wolfish skinchangers remaining. Like us, he knows only of the Bear outside our borders.”

  
  


“He did have a suggestion, though,” Caledon puts in. He is one of the youngest of Thranduil's people, younger even than Tauriel and barely an adult by the standards of the Eldar. Besides that, he is subordinate to his captain, and so really should not be speaking up. But Thranduil's raised eyebrows and Tauriel's exasperated frown don't quiet him. “He spoke of changelings.”

  
  


“Those are human fairy stories,” Tauriel objects. “He said that too.”

  
  


“He said he thinks there's something to them, though. It's true, humans talk about children replaced by creatures, fairy changelings left in place of their babes, but Aiwendil says that he and Mithrandir both found evidence that some of the beings humans tell stories of did and perhaps do exist, the sprites and water-folk and so on. He says there have long been rumors of animals with human eyes, wolves and foxes and great cats, all too large to be normal beasts. He thinks they might be real, kin to beings like the Bear, maybe.”

  
  


It's the most Caledon has ever said in Thranduil's presence, and he sounds quite convinced. Thranduil, on the other hand, is not. It sounds to him like the kind of mad fictions the humans create all the time – he remembers the bargeman from Laketown, for one, believing that an elf who knew his name could bespell him.

  
  


Ridiculous.

  
  


Still, some of the human superstitions have been backed up, or so some have claimed, by dwarvish legends. Thranduil doesn't much care for dwarvish history beyond what he needs to know to deal with them, but he does know they claim that, when they arrived in Middle-Earth while most elves were in Valinor, they came across shy creatures in the lands they passed through. Beings of the trees and bushes, and similar folk in the rivers and even the ocean. It's said that the Avari, who never went to Valinor and never wanted to, have their own tales of such things.

  
  


And there are the skinchangers, and the wargs bred from tortures inflicted on them, much like how orcs came of captive elves. There are even the halflings, kin to men but part something else, something less certain. It's not impossible that this creature in his woods could be like that. It would explain the strangeness of it all. “And these rumors, are they of these creatures attacking and killing humans?” he asks.

  
  


“A couple, but the strongest is this myth in Rohan, he said. A black wolf with blue human eyes, who comes out of Fangorn to attack Rohan's enemies when things are at their worst.”

  
  


Now that he hadn't expected. It may be a good sign, that the spider-hunter won't turn on his elves next. With any luck, which is something in short supply for them, these days.

  
  


It is a month later when a hunt turns to a battle. The spiders have never come so close before, and yet in a strange way Thranduil welcomes the fight, the chance to attack these things that are destroying his home. His sword flashes through the air, spiders falling to pieces in its wake. They shriek as blades and arrows pierce them, until all of them are dead and the only trouble is getting clear of the sticky mess of their webs. Until there's another shriek, and a growl following it.

  
  


A blur of silver and black tumbles into the clearing, another spider and a...

  
  


Ah. So this is the wolf. He recognizes the shape, the pale fur.

  
  


The spider is dead in short order, and the silver-grey wolf's muzzle is stained with dark blood. Only then does it appear to notice the elves around it, with blades drawn and arrows nocked. It freezes, backing up, eyes darting -

  
  


Like a panicked human. And the eyes themselves... Aiwendil was right, and Caledon was right to tell him about it. Human eyes, mostly grey but a little green, amber at their center. Eyes wide and wary as though they are more a threat than the spiders. Smart creature, for they are, if they choose. And yet... He meets those eyes, thinking. Part of him wishes to capture the wolf, to find out its true nature. And yet... Those wary eyes tell him, the wolf has not attacked so far, but it will fight if _they_ attack, likely forcing them to kill it – which will get them few answers, if any. It does not trust them, but that could change. It fears them, as it feared him in his other form. There is no darkness to it that he can sense, only a half-contained wildness, and it has been useful so far.

  
  


“My lord Thranduil?” Feren asks, and the wolf looks to him though it's unlikely it understands Sindarin.

  
  


“Let it go,” he commands in the common tongue, so that the wolf is more likely to understand as well.

  
  


His elves lower their weapons and the wolf stays frozen for a long moment. It looks at Thranduil once more, then bounds off into the woods.

  
  


Some questions are answered, and yet others remain. Why does it hunt spiders without hesitation, yet fear elves so instinctively, when it itself is not of the dark? Is the wolf a human of Laketown, or from elsewhere? He means to find out one way or another, which means this is far from over.

  
  


  
  


Following the second incident, Bard avoids the woods for a while. Given that he's now been caught by the Elvenking, of all people, it seems to be the best course of action. It's true that nothing had happened, certainly nothing that suggests he's in danger, but even so... And anyway, he's busy at home, doing odd jobs and trying to bring in enough money to properly care for his children. Sigrid is old enough to ask where it was he was vanishing to, and that's another reason to stop.

  
  


But then old Iain, the bargeman for almost as long as Bard can remember, finally retires, and he offers Bard the job. Bard takes it, glad not only of steady work but also the chance to be alone on the water for a time.

  
  


It's not nearly as good as running and hunting in his wolf form, but it is something.

  
  


It is his second trip out on the barge when Bard first knows he's being watched. A scent on the wind mingling with the smell of the trees, of the water and the land. Moreover, a scent he knows. Different to his human mind, altered still more by his weaker nose in this form, but familiar all the same. A bit like spice but also sharp, bracing. Any almost-spicy scent would mean an elf, but that specific one...

  
  


Iain had mentioned that in his first days, an elf had observed him, even spoken to him briefly. He had neglected to mention, or perhaps had not known, that said elf was the Elvenking.

  
  


Interesting.

  
  


Bard keeps his eyes on his work, not turning to look at the tree line, not preparing to reach for the bow by his foot as he would if he did not know who was approaching. He doesn't think he's supposed to have noticed he's not alone yet, after all. So he just continues loading the empty barrels onto his barge. He knows the Elvenking is getting closer because his scent is stronger. Then there's a sound, a snapping twig, and Bard reacts as he would if he were merely human and startled that way. He drops his barrel and grabs his bow with a smooth motion, fitting the arrow to the string even as he spins around. It's a practiced move, and human enough; his father and grandfather could have done it. Perhaps a bit more slowly.

  
  


“Do you always shoot at strangers, bargeman?” the Elvenking asks, face unreadable, standing motionless. He could pass for a remarkably lifelike statue, Bard decides.

  
  


Bard shrugs, lowering the bow but keeping the arrow to the string, as if still wary. “A stranger who sneaks up on me takes his chances, Master Elf.”

  
  


“Had I wished, you never would have heard me.”

  
  


“Possibly,” Bard says mildly, not sure of that but wondering if the twig snap was deliberate. He's heard the elves are so light-footed as to walk atop snow, but he doubts even such light steps can prevent the old dock from creaking slightly, proof against twig snapping or no. In which case he might have heard, so he can't just agree. That would be a lie, and his people almost never lie outright. To each other, or other kin of the Hidden People, in fact, it is outright forbidden. To non-kin it's best avoided unless absolutely necessary.

  
  


Luckily, King Thranduil seems to take this as a boast of some kind, and merely offers a mocking little smirk. Bard ignores the expression and says in the same mild voice, “I was told to expect a visit or two, but Iain never said you toyed with him like this.”

  
  


“Iain?”

  
  


“The former bargeman. You didn't know his name?” How bloody arrogant is that? For some reason, though, that question earns Bard the faintest hint of a smile.

  
  


“He seemed to fear that should I know his name, I could bespell him. Or so he claimed, and I did not think it worth a debate.”  
  
  


Those old folktales come more from beings closer kin to Bard than to any elf, so far as he's aware, which is why he laughs. “That does sound like Iain,” he says, setting his bow down and leaning on the mast of his barge. “He's always been superstitious. But at any rate, my name is not bargeman.”

  
  


“No, I do not imagine that it is,” King Thranduil says, stepping onto the dock – and yes, Bard can hear the faintest creak before the wind picks up and makes it too soft to hear. He is giving Bard an odd look, almost searching, as if... _He can't know that I'm the wolf in the woods_ , Bard reassures himself. _It's probably just that I look like Da's side, like Girion's line. The eyes aren't clue enough._

  
  


Well, he hopes they are not. One way to identify a shifter is that their eyes don't change. Purebloods have animal eyes even in human form, while changelings like Bard have their human eyes in animal form. His own eyes are unusual, he knows, grey and green and amber near his pupil, a sign of his wolfish side. But they look more grey when he's a wolf, he's been told, and more green as a human. Hopefully it is enough difference to protect him.

  
  


Whatever the look means, all that King Thranduil says is, “Would you prefer bowman?”

  
  


“My name is Bard. I don't think you can bespell me with it.”

  
  


“No, I cannot, Bard the bargeman.”

  
  


Bard can't resist rolling his eyes at that one. He's pretty sure he's being mocked, but things could be worse. “Tell me, Master Elf. Do you have a name?”

  
  


That faint smile again. Oh good, he's a source of royal amusement. “Call me Aran,” King Thranduil says lightly. An alias? Bard hadn't expected that; he'd expected some kind of outright refusal to answer. Though given that he knows it's an alias, he notes the 'call me' as opposed to 'my name is' and silently applauds. It's exactly the kind of word games the Hidden People so love. Perhaps there's a similarity between them and elves after all. Strange thought, that.

  
  


“Well met, Aran,” he says, returning to his work. He's on a time limit, after all; he can only expect Alayne to watch the children for so long, after all. Especially now that she's pregnant for the first time herself. Astrid would be over there with Sigrid helping her right now, if the world were fair, but it isn't and so... “Is there something I can do for you?” he asks to get his mind off the matter, glancing up at King Thranduil.

  
  


“Nothing in particular, Bard the bargeman. I simply heard that a new man had recently taken over the job, and we like to have the measure of one who has contact, however fleeting, with us.”

  
  


“Oh, so your king sent you?” Bard can't help the question, curious as to how the other will respond. An outright lie, or more wordplay?

  
  


“Not precisely, but that is close enough to the truth. It is the sort of thing a king keeps track of, after all.” And said king's voice is as mild as Bard's own, no hint that he is in fact the very person he's referencing.

  
  


“Tell that to the Master. Although his spies inform him of everything anyway,” Bard mutters, not really intending the other to hear. But as one with enhanced hearing himself, he probably should have known better.

  
  


“Your Master is no king, Bard the bargeman. It's a mystery to me how he even became a leader of your people.”

  
  


“Gold. Gold, and a coup in the middle of the night,” Bard says frankly, and it's true, although it was the current Master's father who actually did those things. His grandfather had always spoken of that night as if it had only just happened, and his father, well... His father had tried to do the same thing to topple the Master. He shakes off the memory and glances up at the sun, gauging the time. “Not that it matters, it's done now. But if you'll excuse me, Master Aran, I do need to be getting back. My children will worry.”

  
  


He turns the barge, making for home, looking back again to see that the elf has vanished into the trees. He wonders if there will be another meeting on the docks, or another in the woods. Because he will go back, he suspects; he doesn't think he can hold back forever now he's begun.

  
  


As for meetings on the dock... He _should_ be hoping this is the first and last of those. Fear of elves is ingrained in him, and yet... The wolf was allowed to go free, on this king's order, not shot full of arrows or captured. And strange as today's confrontation was, Bard can admit to himself that he liked it.

  
  


He can admit to himself that he hopes it happens again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> First off, apologies if I completely botched Thranduil's POV - I felt a second wolf!Bard scene would get repetitive, but the vast majority of this verse will be Bard's POV because I am not at all certain of my hold on writing Thranduil's. As to how much Thranduil knows - Bard's indulging in wishful thinking when he decides Thranduil can't possibly know he's the wolf. Thranduil suspects, though he's too careful to be certain after one meeting and a similar pair of eyes. On the other hand, he does not know that Bard in wolf form figured out - since Feren used his name and he wore his circlet - who he was. So they're both playing each other, a bit. 
> 
> And yes, I did imply hobbits are related to skinchangers and changelings and the other Hidden People. How much I'll be going into that I'm not sure because the hobbits aren't very aware of it themselves, but it's part of this world's canon. I never could buy that hobbits were merely an offshoot of men, it didn't make sense to me.


End file.
